


Margaritaville

by Anuna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort-ish, Molly POV, Romance, The Wallpaper Conspiracy, also here goes me making lots of typos and stupid mistakes, drunk conversations, hopefully everything's fixed now, i just adore Molly okay, not even fictional people okay, post series 3, seriously gatiss, this is basically me poking fun at certain writer, you don't call people wallpapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock got drunk and needed to share his insights with Molly Hooper. it didn't go exactly as planned, more like an open mouth - enter foot event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Margaritaville

**Author's Note:**

> This is my humble contribution to the wallpaper conspiracy genre. Disclaimer: I'm not sure who came up with "Mollpaper"; it certainly wasn't me. It's, however, utterly brilliant. Disclaimer #2: the title doesn't belong to me either, but to Jimmy Buffett. I deemed it fitting because it is a song about drinking. Also I may have rewatched TST today, which inspired most of this fic.

“He asked for you,” said Greg Lestrade apologetically. 

Molly tried to keep herself upright, struggling against Sherlock, who was taller, heavier and stronger than her to begin with; but at the moment he was also uncoordinated and apparently very drunk. 

“He asked for me,” Molly repeated incredulously, while trying to maintain a grip on Sherlock. He was either going to collapse, which would mean she would collapse as well, or she'd find some alternate way of keeping him upright. 

“Uh huh,” Greg looked like he would much rather avoid retelling whatever happened prior. 

“Would you help me out here?” Molly said over Sherlock's shoulder when the man in question slumped against her and let out a pitiful sound. 

“Er, of course,” Greg said, moving over to help her hold Sherlock up. They ended up propping him against the wall near the door, but there were no guarantees he wouldn't fall over. Only then Molly had a chance to get a proper look at him – he had his coat, his scarf was hanging loose about his neck and was going to fall off; half of his shirt was hanging out of his pants. And he was grinning like an idiot. Wonderful, she thought. Shitfaced Sherlock Holmes was just what she needed tonight. “Er, I will just -” 

“You will what?” Molly demanded. Greg Lestrade was a smart man, certainly smarter than Sherlock would give him credit for, but right now he was just pretending not to understand her. 

“Well, John went home and I can't bring him with me, and he can't really be left alone -”

“And Mrs Hudson chose this very week to travel with her lady friends,” said Sherlock, with his eyes closed and his mouth spread in an uncharacteristic, too wide grin. “Wallpaper,” he added and started laughing.

“What?” Molly asked. Greg's eyes shifted from Sherlock to Molly. 

“He's been at that for awhile now, uh and -” Greg glanced sideways at Sherlock. The man in question was giggling now. “He asked me to take him here.”

“He asked you?”

“Molly. Gotta see Molly. Gotta solve this -” Sherlock said. Greg inclined his head towards the drunk man. 

“He's nicer when he's drunk,” Greg said. 

“Go home, Grant -” Sherlock waved in Greg's direction and swayed rather dangerously. “You were useful, now I don't need you any more -”

“You know, I'll take back what I just said.” 

“Well who says you can stay here, Sherlock?” Molly decided to cut in.

That made him open his eyes and aim his unfocused look at her, which was a wrong move. He didn't look like the composed, arrogant man he liked to be most of the time. He was drunk, confused and to her, vulnerable; and Molly knew there was a small chance she could just close her door into his pretty face. (Okay, fine, there was none. None at all. She would always help him, no matter how angry she was with him.)

She sighed. “Fine. But you sleep on the couch.” 

“Do you need -?” Greg asked but Molly shook her head. 

“I've got it,” she said, hugging Sherlock around the waist, which he didn't protest against. “I'll deal with him. Bye, Greg.”

The door closed and Molly had first to convince Sherlock to start moving. He was uncooperative, to say the least. 

“But – but – wh – why do you call George 'Greg'?” he asked with genuine confusion. 

“Because that's his name, you dummy,” she said. “Okay, Sherlock. You will have to walk. Can you walk?” 

“Uh – huh,” he said, but didn't seem to willing to part with the wall against his back. He in fact turned to get a better look at the faded colour. “No wallpapers.” 

“No, I don't have wallpapers,” Molly said. Sherlock turned back to face her, too abruptly for his compromised sense of balance and nearly toppled over. Molly managed to hold him against the wall as he frowned at her. 

“No wallpapers??”

“No, Sherlock,” she sighed patiently. She was tired and the headache she was carrying since the noon wasn't helping. It was near her bedtime and all Molly wanted was to go to bed. 

“No-no-no,” he was shaking his head. “Wallpapers. I saw wallpapers -” 

Molly just looked at him. On most occasions it was hard to make sense of things Sherlock said when he deduced something, but right now? Not bloody possible. 

“Where did you see wallpapers?” she asked. He waved her question off, like he often did to people when he wanted to focus, only right now his head was swaying left and right so he decided the wall was a good idea. 

“I know! I knooooow,” he exclaimed after a moment of deep and drunken thought. He pointed a finger in her general direction. “You're the wallpaper!” 

“I am – what?” she asked, and despite knowing that he was completely drunk, there was a tiny bit of hurt inside her chest.

“Mollpaper,” he said, with sudden surprise over his own cleverness. “Yes! That's it!” he even clapped his hands. _Mollpaper -_

“Sherlock -”

“That's brilliant, I am bloody brilliant!”

“Of course you are,” she sighed. He looked over excited, jubilant, completely pleased with himself and in that moment something tiny and delicate in her chest shattered into pieces. Something cracked, and the small crack kept spreading, like a fine spiderweb of disappointment.

“Wallpaper. That expla – explains it,” he continued, absorbed in his conclusion. The sight of Sherlock Holmes wrapped up in his thought process was something she loved, admired, adored even; but right now it made her throat and eyes burn. 

“Well,” she spoke and poked his shoulder without gentleness. “ _This_ wallpaper is going to let you spend a night in a proper bed, instead in jail -“

“Couch, Molly. You said couch -”

And he had the guts to correct her?

“Does it matter what I said? I am a wallpaper to you, aren't I? Why even bother to correct me?”

“Yes you are, but Molly -”

“No _buts_ , Sherlock. You explained it very well. Finally honest, aren't you?” 

His face fell, but Molly wasn't going to bother herself with it. He could have the couch. She didn't care if it was too short for his legs. He didn't manage a proper protest when she pushed him through the sitting room and towards said piece of her furniture. 

“I am always honest with you -” he was saying. 

_Why yes_ , she thought. _Especially when you told me how much I matter._

She pushed him down to the couch and he fell and nearly fell over, legs and arms flailing. Then she watched him, such pitiful, ridiculous sight – his sharp mind rendered useless and his body uncooperative as he struggled to sit up. His face changed then, alarmingly so, and before he could double over, before she could even think and plan her action, she was hauling him up to his feet. 

“Hold it,” she said, barely managing to drag Sherlock into her bathroom and to safe vicinity of her toilet. And then, just a bit cruelly she watched him hug the toilet all alone. But that didn't last long, it couldn't last long because, damn him, Molly was unable to watch him suffer. She knelt next to him, moved his hair away from his forehead and then after he was all done wiped his lips. 

His face was sickly pale, his eyes half open, his complete appearance miserable. And because Molly already felt awful and couldn't handle feeling even worse, she helped him to his feet, gently and patiently, and then took him to bed. 

Then she spent a night on the couch. 

*

To make the matters worse, he was gone when Molly woke up. 

*

And just because she was a masochist (she had to be, right?) Molly couldn't let it drop. She deserved an apology, yes, but more than that she was worried if he got home in one piece. 

“Are you okay?” - MH

He texted her twenty minutes later. 

“Better.” - SH

It was the end of their communication for the day. 

*

Next day it continued.

“I am sorry.” -SH

Molly looked at the message, but didn't know what to reply. What was there to say? She was rather furious. _I am sorry_ didn't cut it. 

“What I said, if I recall correctly, was rather unfortunately put.” - SH

 _If I recall correctly?_ Fucking git.

“Oh I am so * sorry * for you, Sherlock.” - MH

“I suffered alcohol intoxication. What I said to you was probably not in accord with actual facts.” - SH

Molly contemplated throwing her phone, but sadly, Sherlock's head was out of her reach. She took a deep breath and replied. 

“Do you even remember what you said?” - MH

There was no reply for awhile. And because the day was long and dull, and the weather was miserable just like Molly's mood she texted him again. 

“You said, among other things, that you're always honest with me.” - MH

Five minutes later her phone announced the arrival of the text message. 

“That's correct.” - SH

“Sherlock. Do you even remember what you called me?” - MH

 

*

He didn't. 

When Molly arrived to 221b, the flat was in more disarray than usual. Sherlock was sitting in what he referred to as John's chair and didn't look very well, wearing uncharacteristic combination of sweatpants, undershirt and what looked like the shirt he was wearing when Lestrade brought him to her flat. 

“Sherlock?” Molly called. None of his muscles even twitched, and with the long fingers interlaced under his chin he was staring at the wall. At the wallpaper, Molly realized in a flash of pain. “Did you shower since you came home?”

“It wasn't necessary,” he said. 

Molly sighed. 

“Did you eat?”

“Yes,” his tone was uninterested and even. She wasn't sure what she wanted more – to slap him yet again, throw him under the shower or both. Instead of either Molly took a seat across from him and decided, firmly, to get some kind of explanation out of him. For her own peace of mind. 

“Sherlock,” she paused. “Why did you get drunk?” 

That made him look up and look at her for the first time since his drunken wallpaper fiasco. 

“I -” he started and stopped. 

“Sherlock?” she prompted, but his eyes seemed faraway and unfocused, only in a significantly different way than two days ago. It felt more like almost three years ago, when she noticed, correctly, how sad he looked and was trying to hide it. _Now_ she was starting to get worried. Fantastic. She should have been angry with him instead. 

“I met up with John,” he answered. “We had two beers.”

“Oh,” said Molly and paused. _Oh indeed_ , because he might have been the world's only consulting detective and the most observing man when it came to other people's clothing, jobs, habits and sins, but he sure knew shit about himself and his own needs or feelings. “You had the rest of – whatever you were drinking - by _yourself_?” she asked. 

Sherlock nodded, blindly staring ahead. Molly sighed and abruptly remembered John's wedding and flashing lights and Sherlock leaving. 

Which, apparently, nobody noticed. 

 

Oh well, fuck. 

“When I got drunk, I came here and decided to retire to my Mind Palace. It was, given the circumstances, the best course of action. Only then -” 

“What?”

“The wallpapers,” he said, sounding frustrated. Molly looked at the wallpapers – technically not his, but Mrs Hudson's, but knowing Sherlock, she was certain he'd get rid of them hadn't he approved of them, and knowing Mrs Hudson, she would let him. 

“Uh, what's wrong with the wallpapers?”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They were wrong. All wrong! I couldn't – things in my Mind Palace are not supposed to go wrong,” he said. 

“Sherlock,” she sighed. “That doesn't explain the things you told me.” 

His answer was coated with annoyance, and clearly he was pushing his luck.“Well, it's a shame then that I can't remember _what_ I told you in the first place.”

“You called me a _wallpaper_ , Sherlock. A wallpaper,” Molly said, observing his reaction. He flinched, almost as if she'd hit him again (and part of her wished she did). She got up, standing over him and watching him look up at her for a change. “Which – oh I'm not sure I _can_ do this again, Sherlock. You told me once that I mattered, and I, I believed you, and the thing is, I don't know -” she stopped, fell silent and he looked at her. Just looked. Huge eyes and complete focus, and she couldn't read him at all, she was far too upset for that. “And a Mollpaper, you called me that as well, which you thought was incredibly brilliant!”

“Well, it is, when you think, spoken it sounds just like -”

“Oh fuck you! Just stop! You git! Don't you understand how rude you were??!”

He had the decency to look remorseful. When he got up from his chair, Molly straightened up because she was done backing away from this man. 

“You don't understand, Molly.”

“Well, explain it to me, then!”

“My wallpapers aren't supposed to move, Molly,” he said. “Or look like you.” 

* 

The answer to all these problems and questions? Getting shitfaced together, of course. On the floor. 

“... and you see, I don't understand it either. Why would my wallpapers suddenly look like you?” 

Molly let her head fall lightly against the floor. There were no wallpapers on Sherlock's ceiling, but that didn't matter because it was starting to move... well, spin, actually.... fuck, she probably had too much to drink. (John probably shouldn't left this bottle of whiskey here.)

“Maybe you missed me,” she said before she could think of it. 

“That makes no sense,” there was confusion and a frown in Sherlock's voice. Glancing at him, lying on the floor next to her, confirmed Molly's hypothesis. “I see you nearly every day at Bart's, how could I...,” he paused and gestured with his hand, a certain sign that he was drunk. Ish. “ - _possibly_ miss you?”

“Ask your subconscious,” Molly poked him in the arm, because he was close, and she was feeling a little mean and he yelped when poked. 

“Ow! That _hurt_.”

“You deserved it,” she said. 

“I did not, especially if my subconscious is to be blamed.”

“You're the person responsible for your subconscious!” 

“I am functioning within the realm of conscious,” Sherlock said. “My subconscious is irrelevant.”

“It still exists,” Molly said, playing with the strand of hair. “Affects your actions. Makes you look like an inconsiderate idiot.”

Sherlock pondered that for a moment, tapping fingers of both of his hands against the carpet. “Point.”

“I know,” she said, and made a considerable effort to pull herself up, and prop her face against her hand. That way she could look at Sherlock. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail. And she didn't care. She could look at Sherlock and that felt nice.“I'm smart,” she said. 

“You are,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. 

“I'm efficient,” she continued. 

“True,” there was a hint of expectation in his voice. He was waiting for a punchline. 

“You trust me,” she held up a finger. “Professionally.”

He carefully turned to his side. “I do,” he said. “Not just professionally.” 

“I can accept -,” she tapped his bicep, “that you wanted to see me and somehow I ended up being a picture on your wall -”

“ _All over_ my walls,” he said and after a miss grasped her hand. Molly gasped. His eyes were not supposed to be so, so …. so captivating. And he wasn't supposed to look at her like that. So intensely. And rub her fingers with his thumb. She was going to melt. 

Bastard. 

“You won't,” he said. 

“I won't what?”

“You won't melt,” Sherlock whispered. Because she said that aloud. When did he come that close? With his face nearly against hers? 

“Why did you... cof - confiscate my walls, Molly Hooper?”

“Because... maybe you wanted to see me,” she whispered in return, torn between the sight of his eyes and his lips. 

“And you won't go away,” he said. 

“Of course I won't, you silly. Don't you see? You're not alone,” she said. 

His mouth formed a soundless _oh_ at that and he regarded her as something marvellous, something fascinating and maybe even beautiful. And Molly smiled, truly smiled and incited by the boldness of the alcohol, cupped his right cheek with her left hand. 

“I am indeed not.” 

His breath ghosted against Molly's face and his voice sent a wave of shivers all through her, making her toes curl. He tasted of alcohol and frustration and excitement. It wasn't exactly an elegant kiss and they ended up on the floor, and Molly thought how she'd show him how wallpapers kissed. Or not wallpapers. She was just going to kiss him, thank you very much, because she wanted to for the longest time and she had finally found a way to shut him up, and oh, he rolled them over and became rather handsy. 

Well, two could play that game. 

“Molly Hooper,” said Sherlock, grinning smugly when he came up for air. “My wallpaper girl.”

“As much as I like the sentiment, Sherlock,” Molly situated her knee between his legs, “I'd drop the metaphor. There are nicer things you could call a girl.” 

“Such as?” he asked as he shamelessly kissed her into oblivion. 

She might just forgive him. Might. Provided that he treated her very nicely. 

“You're the genius here,” she said, “you come up with it. I just have one condition.”

“Oh, do you now?” 

“I really love your wallpapers, but you definitely should take me to bed,” Molly said.


End file.
